


don't leave the party dying

by tea_tales_and_whales



Series: catch me a break [1]
Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mild Sexual Tension, Other, canon-typical assholery, no non-con content but referenced canon sexual assault, not so much implied as correctly guessed at, weird bathroom shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 07:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_tales_and_whales/pseuds/tea_tales_and_whales
Summary: Post Blood-Test: Ray feels guilty and helps Cyril get home safe after he's been doped up and drained of a litre of blood. Things get a little weird in Cyril's bathtub.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Caravan Palace's Lone Digger.

"Washington Heights. 171st West and Amsterdam," Ray drawls, enunciating almost too crisply, as he shoves an unprotesting, nearly unconscious Cyril into the taxi and slumps down heavily after him. On the flip side of however many melon balls, he remembers to shut the door behind him. Ray gets drunk, yes, but he is a man born and bred out of moonshine-swilling, ass-backwards Ferlin, West Virginia, and he can damn well hold his liquor.   
  
It's hardly a short distance to Cyril's place from Archer's swanky, but tackily-decorated, penthouse in Tribeca, a fact compounded by the look the driver gives him in the rearview mirror like Ray's smoking crack in the backseat.   
  
Well, Ray  _ isn't _ smoking crack, thank you very much - though he's not entirely sure what exactly Cyril has had, but the constricted pupils and dozy mumbling would suggest opiates if Ray thought Cyril had the balls - and he sure as fuck isn't paying the driver for his judgey side-eye on top of the ride. He informs the man of this very fact and shuts the little plexiglass window between them sharply as final punctuation for the duration of the trip.   
  
"How - howww d'y'know where I live?" Cyril slurs, nudging into him like an unbalanced house cat. Ray pushes him away with all the impatience he feels as the best friend of a woman crassly betrayed. He wouldn't normally do something like this behind Lana's back - help her sloppy, cheating ex-boyfriend home safely, that is - but she'd kinda creeped Ray out by insisting he impregnate her at the baby shower and, if he's being honest with himself, he owes Cyril for that little stunt back in Archer's bathroom. He doesn't know why he did that.    
  
If he's being even more honest with himself, which is an unfortunate side effect of the liquor hot and uneasy in his gut, he sort of knows exactly why he did that.    
  
"For the same reason I know where all y'all degenerates I work with live. It's in your personal files and our security sucks ass and not in a good way."    
  
Cyril looks at him oddly for a moment, focusing too hard behind his spectacles, before snickering like a schoolboy. Then, his head thumps back against the cracked leather seat, lolling a little, and Ray rolls his eyes.    
  
Cyril's awake and his stout, barrel chest is heaving unevenly under his rumpled work shirt when they eventually pull up outside his address. Ray ignores him and easily pulls out the cash necessary to pay for the exorbitant fare, though he supplements the tip with a little of what he'd jacked from Cyril's wallet in the bathroom. He feels a little bit bad for that now; he isn't  _ Archer _ , after all, and he's just wondering how to slip the cash back to him tomorrow at work when Cyril clasps his wrist in clammy fingers.   
  
"Are you - you got somewhere to go?"    
  
"Yes, Cyril.  _ Home _ ."    
  
"Come to mine -"    
  
"What? No. I'm not going to do that -"    
  
"But - why not? Please? Y'already paid -"    
  
His words are running together really badly now, swaying in an effort to keep upright. His fingers are trembling against Ray's skin and Ray is suddenly furious at an unknown target.    
  
"Dukes, Cyril! What the hell are you on?"    
  
"I didn't even drink," Cyril protests, voice soft and querulous, and Ray is inclined to believe him because no way is this just alcohol and Cyril is, really, too pathetic to do anything harder unless unwitting. Ray wonders if Krieger slipped something into the food Cyril has been packing away all night or even if Archer himself is responsible. Despite everything Cyril has done, that's just not fair play. Misery and some light suffering are all very well and good but it's not like he deserves to die - which Cyril might very well do without supervision; he looks like a sack of shit.    
  
Which is why Ray, despite how much he's had to drink and how much he's already regretting it not two steps out of the taxi, ends up half dragging, half carrying Cyril into the surprisingly clean and kempt building and up two flights of stairs to Cyril's apartment. Ray’s cats probably won’t be happy with him but at least they’re not going to starve; their bowl was full to the brim before he left for work that morning. But if they’ve pissed anywhere but the litter box, Ray is going to have words with them, right before he makes them both into a fur-lined set of mittens.   
  
"Where are your glasses?" he calls through the bathroom door ten minutes later, wincing at the retching and echoing splash of vomit hitting toilet water.   
  
"They're in here," Cyril moans, sounding wretched. "With me. On the floor I think. Hopefully not in the toilet."

"What do you mean they're -? Oh for God's sake, not  _ those _ glasses. Your glasses you use to drink stuff!"   
  
"Kitchen."   
  
"I - are you kidding -  _ no shit _ Sherlock! Jesus, you're just a real paragon of helpfulness."   
  
Beside the glasses are a collection of mugs and Ray thinks a cup of tea or some coffee might be nice if he can find either in the kitchen cupboards. His train of thought leads him to recall Archer's shaking, itchy manservant and their combined inability to locate the nutmeg. Ray closes his eyes and spills a torrent of foul language under the whistle of the steaming kettle. Well, at least he knows now what the fuck Cyril's on and where it came from, if not exactly how it actually ended up in Cyril's veins. He's a bit irritated with himself that he didn't figure it out sooner.   
  
"Are you in the practice of doping up with Woodhouse? I wouldn't have thought the two of you close -" Ray quips as he shoulders open the bathroom door, carrying two cups of coffee, before staring blankly at the empty space in front of the toilet where Cyril should have been. Then he realises through the faint haze of booze still clouding anything beyond the immediate proximity that the shower is running - more of a half-hearted jog really, so to speak - and Cyril is sitting in it, mostly concealed by the shower curtain.    
  
He's brushing his teeth - and of course Cyril brushes his teeth in the shower; it's just so unabashedly  _ Cyril-y _ \- and still wearing his glasses. Most of his clothes are pushed into a sodden heap at the end of the bathtub.    
  
" _ Wzzahbowdoh _ ?" Cyril mumbles around the toothbrush, squinting through his water-speckled lenses in an attempt to keep Ray steady in his sights as Ray sets the coffee down and sits on the edge of the bathtub.   
  
"Huh?"    
  
Cyril spits phlegm and minty foam down the plug hole with surprising accuracy, like a tobacco-chewing farmer, then tilts his head back to catch water in his mouth, which he swishes, gargles, and expels with the same pin-point accuracy, nary a dribble down his chin. Ray is disgusted but intrigued. Cyril's not a swallower then.   
  
"What'd y'say 'bout dope?"   
  
Cyril really doesn't look well. He's pale, slumped back against the tiles, and shivering under the lukewarm water in just an a-shirt and a pair of boxers. The fabric is drenched and translucent, clinging wetly to every curve of flesh Cyril has, leaving nothing to the imagination and it makes Ray almost uncomfortable. There's an obvious track mark bruising the inside of Cyril's left arm, just below the vicious red indent of a makeshift tourniquet, and a nastier bruise further above it. It almost looks like Cyril's been clumsily jabbed with a knitting needle which, bizarrely, makes Ray feel guilty for no damn reason he can easily discern as well as nonplussed.   
  
"Doesn't matter. It's probably Archer's fault anyway." Ray doesn't entirely blame Cyril for muttering mutinously before he shoves the toothbrush back in his mouth like an act of sullen rebellion. Ray catches his hand and pulls the toothbrush away preemptively before Cyril triggers his gag reflex. He tosses it in the sink.    
  
"How do you feel?"   
  
"Am I - am I dying?"    
  
"Jesus. Guess  _ that _ answers my question. Look, Cyril, I don't know how you managed to get heroin in you at a  _ baby shower _ but if this is your first rodeo then you are in for one hell of a ride."    
  
Now Cyril looks as confused as Ray feels and upset besides so Ray offers him the coffee cup with a dash of cream and two sugars. Cyril dribbles nearly half the contents down his chin at the first sip and grimaces, teeth bared, shoving the mug back to Ray who only just manages to keep it from tipping over his suit pants.   
  
"Caffeine is the last thing I need -"    
  
"Damn it, Cyril, don't be shitty. I didn't  _ have _ to stay and drag your ass home -"    
  
"You did though." Cyril, absurdly, smiles. "I said please."    
  
"Yeah." Ray sighs heavily and downs his own coffee - black, no sugar - in three long swallows and the rest of Cyril's in one. He looks up from the rim of the mug just in time to see Cyril slide sideways in a graceless arc like a gut-shot enemy spy.   
  
"Oh  _ dukes _ ! Dukes, dukes, double dukes! Cyril?!"     
  
Ray clambers into the bath and kneels painfully, hauling Cyril's limp form upright, cursing all the while, and presses two fingers firmly against the soft hollow under Cyril's jaw, searching. The carotid artery thrums rapidly beneath drug-fevered skin but above the neck seems to be the only place producing any sort of heat. The rest of Cyril feels deathly cold despite the shower water. Ray pats his cheek sharply, repeatedly, until Cyril jerks and makes a noise halfway between hurt and indignant.   
  
"We might need to get you to a hospital -"    
  
"Nooo," Cyril moans, head tipping back and eyes sliding open with no small amount of effort. His glasses are askew so Ray takes them off with more care than he feels capable of and drops them over the rim of the bathtub. Cyril hums from the back of his throat as though grateful and slumps heavily into Ray, mostly dead-weight. "Everything  _ aches _ ."    
  
"Yeah dumbass, that's the heroin. What I can't figure out is why your heart's goin' like a fucking jackrabbit. You on speed too?"    
  
"They stabbed me," Cyril whines pitifully, mouth moving against Ray's throat and Ray tenses like he's handling a spooked animal whose teeth he can't see but might well be poised to bite down. "Felt like the time I needed a rabies needle after Cheryl let that ferret loose in the office but in my upper arm. Still hurts -"    
  
"What?! Who stabbed you?"    
  
"The blood drive people - person - Krieger? I think? When did the office last have one of those? I think there was one going on in Archer's bathroom tonight -"   
  
"What the hell are you talking about? ISIS has never had a workplace blood drive. Why would we? Most of us lose more than enough blood in the field!"   
  
"Didn't we though? A year or two back? Krieger was going around and I - oh."    
  
"Yeah.  _ Oh _ . Jesus Christ, Cyril, when are you gonna learn to never let that crazy son of a bitch near you with any kind of medical equipment?"     
  
Cyril doesn't deign to respond beyond a huffy exhale of breath and Ray, for a moment, thinks he's passed out again until he feels Cyril's mouth fluttering over his pulse above where Ray's collar is undone and his tie is loosened.   
  
"You'd bang me," Cyril whispers, without a single hint of question in any syllable, and it goes straight to Ray's gut like a sucker punch. He feels like when he's in the passenger's seat of a humvee and Archer is driving and the bastard hits the brakes hard enough for Ray to crack his nose and split his lip against the airbag. Something hot and ugly rears its head, surging up Ray's throat like bile. He lies through his teeth, hating himself because he  _ would _ . He abso-fucking-lutely would, right here and now and messy.   
  
"Yeah?" he hisses, rearing back to fix Cyril with an expression filled with all the withering contempt he should be directing inwards. "Maybe I  _ would _ have screwed you stupid back when you were single. Back when you were just the dorky, mild-mannered comptroller with a regrettable, but cutesy, tendency to cling. But I sure as hell won't fuck you now that  _ you've _ gone and fucked your way through most of the office - and Christ knows how many others - behind Lana's back!"    
  
"I'd have  _ married _ her," Cyril wails, expression crumpling like fender of a crashed car. "But she d-didn’t want to! Two months salary on a ring but then the strike - the extraction-!" The rest of what he says dissolves into ugly little sobs, tears and snot and probably drool contributing to the wetness on Ray's sodden dress shirt and tie. Ray sags a little closer until they're slotted together, suddenly exhausted.   
  
"Yeah, honey. I know. We all know."   
  
He lowers his forehead to thunk gently against the bathroom tile behind Cyril and sighs, letting the raised edges dig grooves into his skin. He's too drunk for this, or maybe not drunk enough anymore. The shower continues to rain down on them both, growing colder with each passing moment, and a shiver runs through Ray at the slide of water over the nape of his neck. Cyril's hands tangling in his shirt might also have something to do with it.   
  
"I said I'd bang you too," Cyril mumbles, sniffling.   
  
"Lucky me!  _ And _ just about three quarters of the rest of ISIS. Danny the Intern - God rest his soul. Scatterbrain Jane. Cheryl. Or is it  _ actually _ Carol now? Fuck, you  _ did _ bang Cheryl-slash-Carol -"   
  
"And Scatterbrain Jane," Cyril adds morosely.    
  
"Dukes! Keep it in your pants, you  _ slut _ ."   
  
"I have a medical disorder! Jane was upset. She was just diagnosed with breast cancer -"    
  
"Yeah yeah, I follow Pam's blog. We all know about the  _ magical healing cock _ trope. Jane seems  _ much _ better now."    
  
"Y'know what, Ray -"   
  
"Save it, Cyril. I'm not in the mood."   
  
Cyril's shoulder, while wet and goose-prickly and cool, is softer than the tile and Ray has had enough of that particular self-flagellation. At the junction between neck and shoulder, Cyril still smells faintly of the cologne he slightly over-applies every morning before work. It's nice, a little musky. Ray focuses on that rather than the way they're scrunched up together in the tub - him kneeling and Cyril's legs spread and draped over Ray's thighs - and keeps his hands resolutely braced against where the edge of the tub meets the tile wall, fingernails digging into the rubbery seam of caulking.   
  
"What  _ are _ you in the mood for?" Cyril's nose brushes cold against Ray's temple. His hands are still clutching Ray's shirt, twitching nervously. Ray wants to hold them still. He’s a bit surprised by how little he’s disappointed with himself when he does just that and exhales softly against Cyril’s neck, making him shudder.

“Quiet. Just for a bit.”

“Um. Isn’t it already? We’re not - oh. Starting now then?”

Ray doesn’t shush him because that wouldn’t be fair and it’s not Cyril’s fault - hopeless and drugged as he is - that Ray’s being weird and having a weird moment in Cyril’s bathtub. He’s tired and just drunk enough that if he falls asleep now he’s still going to wake up with something of a headache, which he’d rather do in the comfort of his own bed in his own damn apartment but he  _ can’t _ because he’s a fucking idiot and he helped Cyril home instead of just shoving him out of the taxi. Rather than tucking comfortably into bed with a book just to last him until the boozy edge fades away to manageable, Ray is regretting his life choices under a spray of now unpleasantly cold water, his clothes soaked to the skin, while holding hands with Cyril. 

He has a minor epiphany, suddenly understanding now why, during play fights and, later, real fights with his brother, Randy would often bite him if Ray was getting the upper hand. Well, now Ray is losing - even if he doesn’t know what; his damn  _ mind _ , probably - and the urge to even the odds is overwhelming. Cyril’s throat is tender and soft and  _ right there _ .

Cyril’s probably drifted off again if his face pushed into Ray’s hair is any indication. Ray pulls one of his hands free to check Cyril’s pulse again although it's not like he can’t feel it against his lips where they’re pressed to Cyril’s neck. Cyril’s hand comes up to loosely cover his own so Ray straightens up and carefully averts his eyes from Cyril’s earnest mouth.

“What now?” 

“Do you still feel like you’re going to die?”

“Probably. M’tired.” 

“Then we’re getting out of this bathtub and you’re going to bed.” Ray reaches out and turns the shower off, silence sucked into the vacuum left behind without the drum of water. It takes some blind fishing over the side of the bathtub to locate Cyril’s glasses again. 

“Aren’t you too?” 

“Well - yeah. I’ll sleep on your couch.”  

He doesn’t, but it’s not that Ray was lying to Cyril when he said that. He  _ wasn’t _ . But upon perusal of the couch in question, which isn’t bad per se, it’s just that it’s more of a loveseat than a couch and, therefore, far too short. Ray refuses to sleep on the floor. Both options will play merry havoc with his back and Ray has no desire to add that particular pain on top of every other complaint he’s going to drag into work tomorrow. Then again, he’s probably going to call in and take a personal day. He’s owed that much, if only for preventing ISIS’s accountant from shrivelling up in the shower like a prune. Cyril doesn’t seem to mind the change of plan, possibly because he’s concentrating on not falling over as they make their way to his bedroom clad only in towels. Their clothes, still drenched, remain in the bathtub where Ray shucked his off to join Cyril’s. 

“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” 

“Mmhmm.”

Ray keeps his eyes on the opposite wall while Cyril fumbles out of his towel and changes into something dry and sleep-appropriate, but turns back at the faint squeak of the bed frame to see Cyril in a t-shirt, lying down and wiggling into a pair of checkered pyjama pants before depositing his glasses on the nightstand and flopping back against the pillows. Ray snaps his fingers to catch Cyril’s attention and brusquely gesticulates some sort of flipping motion. 

“Oh no, nuh uh. Come on, recovery position, let’s go. I sincerely doubt we’ve seen the last of your stomach contents for the night.”

“I just got comfortable -” 

“And you can get just as comfortable in the recovery position.”

“Make me.”

“ _Oh my_ _God_ \- really? Seriously? What are you, five?”

Cyril doesn’t respond beyond what sounds like “ _ you’re _ five” and Ray feels himself arriving at the end of his long rope of patience. It’s been stretched and worn thin over the last however long he’s been in this apartment - possibly for longer than that but Ray doesn’t really want to examine whom the primary cause is, nor for how long - and Ray rather needs it unfrayed for his ascent back to normalcy from whatever weird situation  _ this _ is; at this point, however, the metaphor has begun to break down and has reached the end of its usefulness anyway so Ray stops dwelling on it and approaches the bed to manhandle Cyril until he’s lying on his side with his leg drawn up and braced against the bed.

“I could roll back if I wanted,” Cyril mumbles, mouth half squashed against the hand Ray has placed under his cheek.

“Fine. Asphyxiate on your own vomit. See if I care.” 

He thinks Cyril might be watching him from under his shuttered eyelids as Ray drops the towel around his waist and shimmies into a loose pair of boxers with the highest percentage of cotton he can find and a t-shirt that’s as baggy as the difference between their builds. He doesn’t really mind because at least it means that Cyril hasn’t done as he’d threatened and rolled onto his back again. 

That doesn’t mean Ray isn’t going to call him out on it though. 

“See something you like?” 

Cyril is quiet for a moment as Ray circles the bed, switching off lamps, before snickering as Ray slips between the sheets and neatly situates himself against Cyril’s back - but only to prevent him from rolling over in his sleep and puking all over the bed and, by extension, Ray. That is not the wake up call Ray wants tomorrow morning. 

“You’re in my pants -” Cyril mumbles and Ray rolls his eyes at the ceiling. 

“You wish. Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep, Cyril.” 

* * *

“Nnnghh -”

“I said shut up, Cyril.” Ray tosses his phone down onto the comforter and flings his arm over his eyes to block out the muted yellow light creeping across the wall from behind the blinds. “No wait. Un-shut up and tell me if you’re gonna puke so I can push you off the bed -” 

“S’my bed, asshole...I think,” Cyril grumbles, hardly intelligible, against Ray’s shoulder where he might have been drooling for the better part of the night if the damp spot on Ray’s borrowed shirt is any indication. “ _ Jeezy Petes _ , why does my head hurt so much?” 

“Heroin. Oh, and possible blood loss. I don’t know how or why yet but I ain’t ruling it out.” Ray’s arm is trapped under Cyril’s body and completely numb. It feels pretty horrible but the pins and needles will feel worse so he ignores it and doesn’t ask Cyril to move from where he’s got one leg jammed between Ray’s and a heavy arm slung across Ray’s diaphragm. It’s actually almost nice because - due to either the building’s heater being broken or the double glazing being shitty - it’s fucking freezing in here and Cyril’s warm weight half on top of him, the heat trapped beneath the thick comforter, is the only thing warding off the chill of the room. 

“What -? No. Wait. I don’t want to know. I  _ don’t _ want to know. What time is it?” 

“Well if you don’t want to know, why did you ask?”

“Two. Separate. Sentences. You  _ ass _ .” 

“Jesus Christ, okay, okay. It’s just gone eight thirty.” 

“Son of a  _ bitch _ . Work -” 

“I called in a personal day for myself. Woulda done one for you too but that would be weird. Ms. Archer asked me if I’d seen you and I told her no - _you’re_ _welcome_ \- but that I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t show up today given how shitty you looked last night - 

“Gee thanks.”

“- shut up. She didn’t issue any kind of promise of brutal reprisal to your person for not coming in so either she’s too busy with that damn paternity test of Archer’s or she’s somehow responsible for your current state and feels - no wait, what am I talking about. That woman doesn’t know the meaning of guilt. More likely she just doesn’t want an HR complaint or a lawsuit. Ooh, you should file one anyway.” 

“I should. I really should. Oh God. Ray. Kill me.” 

“With kindness?” 

“ _ With _ an axe. Or a gun. I'm not fussy at the moment.” 

“How about I open the blinds instead and treat you to some good ol’ morning sunshine -?” 

“Oh God no.” Cyril moans pitifully. “Ray, please -” 

“Then, for the millionth time, shut up and be quiet. I haven’t had a day to sleep in for months. Neither have you, I'm sure. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

* * *

“Phrasing,” Cyril mumbles, rolling onto his back and dragging most of the bunched comforter into a pile on top of him. There are pillow-lines creasing his left cheek.

“Hmm?” Ray frowns at him over the piece of toast he’s chewing while sitting cross legged at the end of the bed, yesterday’s newspaper with the crossword spread out in front of him. 

Cyril doesn’t elaborate beyond a faint snore so Ray just assumes it’s sleeptalk. Now  _ that’s _ interesting. He wonders if he can get a conversation going, maybe delve a little deeper into Cyril’s psyche. It would certainly be more engaging than what he’s been doing since waking up again at ten in the morning, dying for a piss, which includes wringing out and hanging his and Cyril’s soaking clothes up to dry, watering Cyril’s frankly impressive collection of plants (every time Ray looked up from watering one, he spied two more elsewhere), and scrounging up some semblance of breakfast in Cyril’s tiny kitchen. 

“Why am I still here?” Ray asks nobody but himself and Cyril’s unconscious shape under the covers. Probably, he reasons to himself, because he does actually want to make sure Cyril isn’t dying from dope withdrawal, that he isn’t jonesing for another hit only to go in search of one and then spiral rapidly into a debilitating addiction that will see Cyril living in a cardboard box beside the river before dying of tainted-needle or unprotected-sex-for-drug-money AIDS. That won’t do. Ray needs him for when it comes time to do his taxes - Cyril’s brilliant at that shit and he hasn’t yet figured out that he could charge his coworkers for his services. 

“Is that my bathrobe?” 

Cyril is awake, sitting up, although if his expression is anything to go by, it looks like he would rather be anything but that. His usually carefully groomed hair is all over the place and he’s squinting. Ray is rather tempted to facetiously put up his hand and ask Cyril if he can count how many fingers he’s holding up. 

“Yes it is. Your apartment is kinda fucking cold as shit and I probably coulda cut holes in a jewellry store window with my nipples after I took off the shirt you lent me -”

“ _ Why _ did you take the shirt off?” 

“Cuz you drooled on it, dumbass.”

“What?!”

“Uhhhh, do you  _ not _ remember this morning? When you started bitching about your killer headache? From your position of  _ half on top of me _ ? Like a couple hours after we went to bed you just rolled over like a man on a mission and snuggled me like I was a damn body pillow. I tried pushing you off to protect your fragile heterosexual sensibilities come morning but  _ damn _ , Cyril. You are heavy. Like seriously, I’m not a weakling but after five minutes of pushing I just gave up and lay there and thought of England and the Queen, or whatever the American equivalent is. Lay off the chocolate maybe, Marlon Brando -” 

“I - Marlon Brando -  _? What? _ ” 

“He couldn’t keep that supple body forever.” Ray sighs and sucks his teeth. “More’s the pity.” 

“So I eat my feelings, Ray! Is that so wrong?” 

“Oh honey, I'm not bitter about spending the night as your cuddle-buddy despite getting drooled on. Not at all. Your love-handles are adorable. Very comfortable.”  

“You’re mean.” 

“I mean it. Really. All joking aside, if you bulked up a little, turned some of that chub into muscle, you could probably beat up Archer one day. Isn’t that the dream?” Ray grins in the face of Cyril’s scowl and hands him his plate with its unfinished piece of toast. Heedless of the neat little bite out of it - he probably can’t see it without his glasses - Cyril shoves nearly the whole thing into his mouth and chews sullenly, a little smear of jam blotting his lower lip. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Like someone stuffed me in a garbage can and threw me down a concrete flight of stairs. Oh, and then pushed a small monkey orchestra into my skull through my ears and instructed them to repeatedly play Tchaikovsky’s  _ 1812 Overture _ .” 

“Is that the one with the cannons?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

Ray passes him an untouched glass of water he’s had sitting on the floor beside his own since he first fetched them once he got up. Cyril gulps it down miserably, looking like a sick little kid kept home from school. At least some of the colour comes back to his cheeks now that he’s finished the toast and had something to drink. 

“Do we want to talk about last night?” 

“Why? What happened last night?” Ray asks, sounding much more innocent than he feels. He doesn’t know how much Cyril remembers but there’s far too much of last night that involves Ray, bathrooms, and dodgy behaviour. Ray’s definitely not proud of the round little red-purple bruise high up on the side of Cyril’s throat and he’s hoping Cyril doesn’t look in a mirror until it's faded enough to escape notice. 

“...nothing.” Cyril sheepishly smooths his hair; it’s pretty impressive that he gets it halfway neat without aid of a reflection. Ray’s almost jealous. “Do we want to talk about how I got the shirt I gave you wet and then didn’t remember doing it -?”

“Hmmm, I think we can chalk  _ that _ up to you being off your head on smack and down a pint - maybe? Maybe more? - of blood. Besides, Lana told me you were a cuddler. I'm not surprised.” 

Cyril begins wringing his hands and Ray instantly regrets mentioning her, so he swats Cyril’s leg with the newspaper to recapture his attention. 

“Speaking of, how do you feel about heroin?” 

Cyril grimaces and shakes his head.

“No itching? No dry mouth? No overwhelming urge to forge out into the night and chase the metaphorical dragon?”

“No, no, and God no. If I ever feel like this again I’ll do myself a favour and die in a gutter first.” 

“Good stuff. Last thing we need at ISIS is a smackhead. We’re already drowning in alcoholics and wannabe rastas -” 

“Ray?”

“Uh huh?” 

“...thanks. For - well. Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome, Cyril.” 


End file.
